


Tricks and Treats

by MellytheHun



Series: Tumblr Sterek Prompts [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Halloween, Halloween Challenge, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Romance, Smut, Stiles is like seventeen or eighteen here?, Tumblr Prompt, idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: Stiles and Derek get very distracted while on look-out for vampires one Hallow's Eve.





	Tricks and Treats

It’s not like Halloween could be _safe_ in Beacon Hills. 

That would be bizarre, and sick irony. 

No, this year in Beacon Hills, Stiles is tragically sober, his insulin and blood sugar levels are entirely, miserably, horribly normal, and he’s enduring the torture of this normalcy all while spying on the house of a suspected vampire.

For real.

The _empty_ house of a suspected vampire, at that.

“Why are we even heeeerrrrrrreeeeee?” Stiles groans, throwing his head into his crossed arms.

His knees are drawn up, and his ass is freezing on the dirt ground.

He and Derek are strategically positioned behind bushes outside, and facing the front of the house.

Derek seems unbothered, his legs pretzeled, shoulders mostly slack, his face as unreadable as always. 

He sighs, like they’ve discussed this at least thirty times over the last twelve hours (which they have), and he explains for the umpteenth time, “because Lydia thinks this guy is out on a hunting spree, but vampires won’t kill unless they’re inside someone else’s home, or in their own. They need to be invited into a person’s home to enter, otherwise they’re burned. On a night like Halloween, pretty unlikely that anyone will be inviting strangers into their houses. He’s more likely to bring someone back with him here. If and/or when he does, I’ll be here to tear him a new one.”

Stiles picks his head up slightly again, staring at the dark empty house across the street as if it’s personally offended him. 

“It’s cold.”

Derek doesn’t reply.

Stiles scowls at the house.

“And I’m pretty sure I’m bending my tailbone in some irreversible way.”

Derek doesn’t reply.

Stiles opens his mouth to mention the fly that keeps buzzing by his ear, but before he can say anything, Derek inserts, “if you complain about one more thing, bodily harm will come to you.”

The threat is entirely empty, and Stiles knows that, but he shuts his mouth anyway.

Well, for a while.

Stiffly shuffling to get more comfortable, Stiles groans unpleasantly when his back makes an ominous crackle.

The sound draws Derek’s attention, and Stiles gives him an expression to say, ‘ _see! I wasn’t just complaining._ ’

Derek’s face and voice are dry when he offers, “why don’t you just lie down? I’ll let you know if there’s anything worth sitting up to see.”

Stiles hesitates, wants to mention that he doesn’t really want to get his jacket dirty, and he’s always paranoid about ants getting in his hair - has been since the Fire Ant Incident of 2002 - but it’s a story unlikely to garner any pity from Derek.

He throws his hood up, and lies down on the cold, hard ground, tapping his fingers across his abdomen restlessly. 

He’s still terribly cold. The air isn’t whipping or anything, it’s moving fairly slowly, but it’s bone dry, and at this point in the evening, easily below fifty degrees Fahrenheit.

He inwardly chides himself for not exercising more. 

 _I’d have better circulation if I fuckin moved sometimes_ , he complains to himself, curling his frozen toes in their mismatched socks, and too-thin converse. 

He takes in a deep breath so he can sigh dramatically, but the air gets stuck down the wrong pipe or something, making him cough, and then starting a series of loud hiccups. He groans in frustration between hiccups, trying to hold his breath for as long as he can to make them go away, but the usual technique refuses to work.

Derek leans over Stiles, his expression blank; Stiles stares back at him, his face a bit pink from cold, and self-directed frustration.

“If you hiccup one more time,” Derek says, “I’m going to shove my tongue down your throat.”

Whatever happens in Stiles’ chest cavity in response to that cannot be healthy. 

“W-what?”

Derek settles more of his weight onto his hand that’s propping him up over Stiles’ side.

Stiles half-consciously notices that Derek’s hair is more a jet black than his own jacket. Darker than the night sky, even.

“If you hiccup one more time,” Derek repeats easily, “I’m going to shove my tongue down your throat.”

Stiles’ heart is recognizably racing now, because Derek looks _serious_ , and his face must be so red, and his heart must be so loud to Derek, and…

And he doesn’t hiccup.

He doesn’t know whether or not to be grateful, disappointed, or resentful of being tricked. He decides all three are suitable. 

Derek smirks victoriously, and moves his body to lean his weight on his knees again, going back to focusing on the empty house. 

Stiles looks up at the bare trees, to some of the visible stars, and wonders what in the world he has done in this life or a past one to deserve this sort of torture, and why in the name of all that is holy does he enjoy every moment of it?

They both turn their heads towards the sound of several footfalls coming from their left, and Stiles sits up.

Derek ducks down lower, flares his nostrils, and then shakes his head, muttering, “just kids.”

Stiles makes a noncommittal hum, and then grins like the Cheshire cat.

He turns to Derek, and starts, “hey…”

Derek turns his head toward Stiles gradually, already looking unimpressed, and uncooperative.

“What?”

“You should scare those kids, man,” Stiles answers.

Derek rolls his eyes, and starts to look away, but Stiles grabs Derek’s upper arm for his attention again, and adds, “no! Seriously! It’s your civic duty! You are a real-life, no-shit, fucking _werewolf_ , dude. You are the poster boy for self discipline every other night of the year, but it’s _Halloween_ , man. Wield your power chaotically! Scare small children! Give them the scare of _their lives_! They’ll never forget it! They’ll be talking about ‘that one Halloween,’ into old age!”

Derek grimaces, still looking uncertain, but Stiles knows he can push Derek enough to convince him. 

The footfalls are coming close, and Stiles tightens his hand around Derek’s shoulder, and whispers enthusiastically, “bro, _do it_.”

The apparent disdain Derek has for being called ‘bro,’ makes Stiles’ grin even wider, but as the footfalls turn the corner of their block, he sees the contemplation in Derek’s eyes turn to certainty. He lets go of Derek’s arm, and scoots back in the dirt a few feet. 

Derek crouches low, and moves silently behind a nearby tree.

Stiles watches Derek take his jacket, and shirt off, then squat so that the top half of his face can be seen above the dying bushes, but the rest of his body is concealed by the tree, and brush.

Derek’s eyes start to glow, and Stiles can tell, because they cast a light like a moonbeam onto the branches hiding him.

As the group of 10 to 12 year olds begin to pass their spot, Stiles sees Derek intentionally break a twig under his foot.

The kids stop in their tracks.

There are four of them - a small Frankenstein’s Monster, a young pirate who has obviously been walking around so much and loosening his costume throughout the night that he looks more like Prince than anything else. The other two kids are twins, dressed in Hogwarts uniforms, holding plastic wands, and they’ve got sort of dusty, orange hairspray on their heads.

Accidentally Prince looks around the quiet, dark block, and asks the classic, “did you guys hear that?”

Stiles almost laughs - has to cover his mouth not to. He’s half-expecting one of them to shout out ‘jinkies!’ or ‘we should split up, gang!’

“It was probably just a squirrel,” one of the twins says, looking to the other for support, “They probably smell the candy, right?”

They all turn to look at Frankenstein’s Monster who is staring directly at the space where Derek is crouched and hiding. 

“Louie? What’s wrong?” Accidentally Prince asks.

 _His name is **Louie**?_  Stiles thinks to himself absurdly, _And he didn’t dress up as an aristocratic vampire??? What has happened to this generation??? For shame, Louie. For shame._

“I… do you see that?”

All of the kids turn to follow the line of Louie’s stare, and they must see the glow of Derek’s eyes.

None of them seem to know what to do, and Accidentally Prince even seems like he may brush it off as a trick of the moonlight, but then Derek lunges forward in full Beta form, claws and fangs glistening like knives, and roaring so loudly, and so deeply that the ground _shakes_.

The kids turn white as the moon, two of them dropping their candy bags in their surprise, all of them shrieking with unadulterated terror, and Stiles _loves_ it. They run faster than Stiles knew was humanly possible for legs so short - screaming the entire way.

Once they’re a good distance away, still screaming in down the streets, Stiles bursts into laughter, and falls backward, holding his stomach, and head. 

Derek comes back over, putting his long-sleeved shirt back on, and obviously trying not to smirk.

Stiles is eventually able to wheeze out, “ _oh my God_! That was _beautiful_! Five stars! An outstanding performance! Fun for the entire family! You, sir, are getting an Emmy nod for that!”

Stiles is pretty shocked by the soft chuckle that elicits from Derek.

He’s more shocked by Derek’s leather jacket landing on his head. 

He pulls it off, and looks up to Derek in confusion. 

“You said you were cold.”

Stiles’ heart does another weird thing, and his chest feels sort of tight. Not like it does before a panic attack - something different. A strange cocktail of anxiety and pleasure.

He nods, a bit slack-jawed, and says, “thanks.”

Eventually they are sitting in the quiet again - Stiles steals the abandoned bags of candy from the street, and eats his weight in stolen sugar.

Another hour ticks by without any sign of life, and the air full of only strangely companionable silence. 

Stiles is eyeing a bite-sized Crunch bar when looks at Derek, presenting it. Derek cocks a brow.

“Who the fuck came up with bite-sized candy?” Stiles asks rhetorically, “What asshole was like ‘you know what the kids will love??? Smaller quantities!’ like…who does this?? The same asshole probably came up with a bunch of other highly disappointing things. Cause, it definitely does not work for any other product, like, they don’t sell three inch dildos, okay? No one fuckin’ grows grapes with the seeds still inside them. Who authorized this?”

Stiles got distracted with waving his hands and arms around a lot during his emphatic anti-bite-sized candy speech, and notices belatedly that Derek is staring at him fondly. He’s got his elbow propped up on his knee, sitting with his legs pretzeled again, and his broad hand is half-covering a just-visible endeared smile. 

Maybe he looks silly - he’s got Derek’s oversized leather jacket draped over his shoulders, keeping him pleasantly warm, he’s got his hood up, he’s surrounded by candy wrappers, and his nose feels cold enough that it’s probably entirely pink. 

Derek replies, “travel-sized toiletries,” in way of defending whoever came up with miniaturized versions of products.

“No!” Stiles argues, pointing his mini-Crunch bar accusingly at Derek, “No! You don’t buy those ridiculous things sized for the Barbie play house, okay? You walk into your local Ulta store, and you stare the cashier directly in the face as you buy an appropriately sized make-up bag, okay? And you pack your grown-up sized toothpaste, toothbrush, and whatever the fuck else you need in that. They are very useful. Fuck traditional gender roles. Be a man, and buy a goddamn make-up bag!”

Derek’s brows move up, and Stiles continues, “and they always include floss with those teeth-care travel packs! Like I’m _ever_ going to use it! Why am I paying twenty cents more for Devil wire that I will _literally never use_?? The toothbrushes are so weak too! And the toothpaste is always like slightly crusty, or something? I’m not about that. I’m not about that life.”

Derek tucks his head down to rub his forehead like he’s frustrated, but Stiles can tell by the apples of Derek’s cheeks that he’s doing it to hide a smile. 

He draws his arms and hands in, looking down at his open, chocolatey palms against his cold jeans. He doesn’t think much at all before faking a hiccup.

He covers his mouth, and while he is forcing it, he’s genuinely surprised by himself, so Derek must read it as genuine.

Derek looks at him dryly, the same way he did earlier, and he says again, “if you hiccup one more time, I’m going to shove my tongue down your throat.”

Stiles ponders on why kissing works so much - it wakes comatose princesses, it halts panic attacks, it cures hiccups (or at least the threat of it does). His father used to say, ‘if you hiccup one more time, I’ll give you fifty dollars,’ and that worked just fine. And he’s not sure if it’s danger, or infatuation, or a combination of both that makes this much more appealing.

He waits a few beats, and just as Derek is turning away to watch the house, a satisfied smirk on his frustratingly handsome face, Stiles fakes another hiccup.

His hands are still covering his mouth, and he is frozen, staring at Derek’s half-turned torso. 

“Trick or treat?”

Stiles cocks his head to the side, his hands loosening a little.

“That’s… you want me to answer that?”

“Yes,” Derek says, still not looking at him, “Trick, or treat?”

Stiles shoots in the dark, and says, “trick,” very uncertainly.

In a flash, Derek has knocked him down, and is on top of him, has his wrists pinned to the ground, and a knee precariously fixed high between his thighs.

Derek’s hands are hot, his entirety emits warmth like being just close enough to the fireplace, and it’s making heat spread fast all over Stiles’ body. 

He leans his face in close, like he really is going to kiss Stiles, and there’s an embarrassment growing in Stiles’ stomach, knowing Derek can feel him getting hard, can hear how hard and fast his heart is beating, can probably _smell_ how much he wants this. It’s not enough to keep him from tilting his head back for better access. But Derek stays just out of reach.

Stiles suddenly understands why his hands are pinned, why Derek’s knee is so close to his crotch, but not close enough to grind against, and why his lips are so tantalizingly near, but still not near enough.

He lets out a high but soft whine, and Derek _just_ brushes his lips across Stiles’ cheek, murmuring lowly, “you… are a _faker_ , Stiles.”

Stiles’ throat clicks on a nervous swallow, but he knows better than to admit anything. He’s the Sheriff’s kid, alright? Two golden rules: never incriminate yourself, and don’t put anything in writing. 

“I would like to change my answer to ‘treat,’” Stiles manages to whisper.

He feels Derek’s lips twitch up against his cheek, the brush of Derek’s stubble giving him pleasant chills.

“Oh, would you now?”

“Please,” Stiles says without meaning to.

Derek picks his head up to look directly into Stiles’ eyes.

Derek’s irises are always intense, always hard to look directly at just for the beauty of them, but this up close, it’s nearly impossible for Stiles to keep his eyes open. They stay half-lidded, just on the edge of closing.

Derek’s got bedroom eyes, and his confidence, and his grace, his speed, his strength is turning all of Stiles’ bones to jelly. 

“Say that again,” Derek says.

Stiles almost doesn’t remember what it was that he said, his brain feels like it’s been simmered into nothing. 

“Please?”

Derek gives him this predatory, and still charming grin, fangs and all.

“Again.”

“Please,” Stiles repeats, the embarrassment making him harder, and more worried that this is all in an effort to humiliate him.

Derek bumps the side of his nose against Stiles’, and says gently, “one more time. Say it like you mean it.”

Stiles gathers some inner strength, breathes in shakily, and asks, quietly, pleadingly, “ _please_.”

He’s barely got the ‘s,’ out before Derek’s licking up the column of his neck with the flat of his tongue, wet and hot. He follows Stiles’ rapidly beating jugular to his ear, and bites down gently on the lobe, pulling on it between his teeth.

Stiles lets out a moan, tries to move, but Derek keeps him pinned, and keeps his knee just a few inches from where Stiles could grind on it.

Stiles arches his back in an effort to touch something, anything, but Derek draws his torso up and away. 

There’s a loud groan of protest, and Stiles thinks if maybe he goes back to begging, he’ll get more, and he opens his mouth to do that, because he doesn’t think there’s ever been a time this much of his body’s blood supply has been directed to his cock.

Derek intercepts any words, though, licking into Stiles’ mouth, moving his tongue along Stiles’ lips, tongue - Stiles hears Derek groan, and it sends a vibration through to his core.

Derek lets go of Stiles’ wrists to grab him by the base of his skull, pull him up, and turn his head just so, for a better angle, to get his tongue deeper, to move against Stiles more passionately.

Stiles’ hands fly to Derek’s hair, in awe of how soft it is, how soft Derek’s _skin_ is - everything is so much more satin than stone, and he doesn’t know why he couldn’t imagine it before.

Without Derek putting his weight on Stiles’ wrists, his weight falls to his knees alone, and Stiles is able to arch his back, and rub against Derek’s front, grind down against Derek’s thigh. He doesn’t think much - his inner monologue is sort of a constant stream of _more, more, more_ and figuring out just how to get it.

Derek pulls away, and Stiles makes small gasps for air, lips wet and swollen, jaw already stressed, but he wants Derek to come back desperately.

Derek only pulls away for the purpose of throwing his leg over Stiles’ waist, and straddling him, leaning back down, cupping both sides of Stiles’ neck, and kissing him again, again, and again, always more sweetly, more ardently. 

The best thrills start when Stiles cants his hips up, and feels the hard line of Derek’s cock in his tight jeans.

His hands scramble from their separate spots in Derek’s scalp, and on one of his swollen biceps, going straight to Derek’s jeans, only thinking of how he wants to make Derek come, he wants to touch Derek’s cock, he wants to see Derek’s naked body, and Derek is _on top_ of him,  _grinding against_  him, _wanting_ him, and it’s making him lose his mind slowly.

Derek catches his eager hands, stopping them. He twines their fingers, and pushes their entwined hands back to either side of Stiles’ head, holding him down again. Not as harshly, not with nearly as much pressure. More like patience.

Which Stiles has none of.

He whines into Derek’s mouth, and he’s rewarded by Derek’s sharp canines gripping his bottom lip and tugging; it makes his cock throb, and he knows Derek feels it.

They pant against one another for a few molten moments, and then Derek kisses the corner of Stiles’ mouth gently. He looks into Stiles’ eyes, still half-lidded, somewhat surprised, pupils blown. He kisses Stiles’ nose, looks into Stiles’ eyes again, and then kisses Stiles’ cheek, then his temple, then the square of his jaw, then that sweet spot on his neck.

He sucks there for a while, and Stiles knows it’s going to leave a very visible mark, but he can’t bring himself to care. While that bruise is being sucked into his skin, Derek’s hands leave Stiles’ and slide under his shirts, finding his pert nipples, and playing with them.

Stiles starts writhing and squirming, his own hands somehow forgotten, and lying limply on the ground.

“You’re gonna make me come in my jeans if you k-keep doing that,” Stiles warns.

Derek hums agreeably, and bites the skin of Stiles’ neck playfully. His hands slide back down Stiles’ front, making every muscle twitch excitedly. He doesn’t fumble at all, just gracefully pulls out Stiles’ jean button, moves the zip down, and tugs down on his jeans and boxers just enough for Stiles’ cock to bob out, throbbing up against his abdomen. 

There’s a bead and string of precum which they both stare at for a second - then Derek slides down, and licks it off experimentally.

Stiles’ gasps violently, his hips jump involuntarily, and he bites on his forefinger to keep from getting too loud. Derek slides his lips along Stiles’ length, down to the wiry hair at the base, and he breathes in deeply, his hands gripping Stiles’ thighs harder, like he’s fighting for control.

Stiles is about to beg for more, totally uninterested in dignity at this point, but he’s saved from that when Derek swallows him down, salivating, and hot enough to melt inside of, and Stiles fucks up into Derek’s mouth, hands gripping at the dead grass around him for purchase. 

Derek holds Stiles’ waist down, bobbing his head up and down Stiles’ entire length, drool glistening, and dripping down onto his sac, and right as he’s on the verge of orgasm, Derek pulls off, and sits up on his knees, leaning back.

He unbuckles his belt and slides it out, unintentionally filling Stiles’ mind with images of having his hands bound by that belt, keeping him locked to a bedpost, or maybe keeping his hands stuck behind his back, unable to stop Derek from _taking_ him, and _ravishing_ him, and then his attention diverts back to Derek, because Derek’s beautiful, thick, veined cock is out where Stiles can  _see_ it, and _touch_ it, and _taste it_ - 

Derek swats his hand away, and Stiles whines loudly again, but Derek doesn’t mind him. He grips both their cocks in his broad hand, and with the slick of his drool still on Stiles’ skin, he slides their cocks together.

Stiles tries to be quiet so he can more appreciate the _fucking incredible_ sounds Derek’s making - these half-pained groans, these small, almost inaudible gasps of surprised pleasure, soft pants, and quiet curses.

Derek keeps one hand around their cocks, and the other hand steady on Stiles’ waist while Stiles’ has one hand twisted in his own hair, and the other around Derek’s forearm, helping him keep pace. 

When he’s too close to be thinking clearly about anything else, Stiles moves his hand from his hair, and pulls his shirts up - he has this idea that Derek will like coming on his skin, and by the way their cocks both pulse violently against each other at the same time as soon that expanse of skin is showing, Stiles thinks he’s right. 

Derek looks deeply distracted with the trail of dark hair going from just above Stiles’ bellybutton down to his exposed crotch, and just a beat after Stiles starts coming, shaking all over with a loud ringing in his ears, Derek’s coming on him too, brows pulled in, face flushed, pace stuttering.

The afterglow is long, and Stiles is panting, trying to catch his breath, eyes shut, and head tilted to the side, neck exposed.

Derek leans over him again, and kisses the bruise he made, licks Stiles’ jugular again, kisses his freckled cheek, and then his lips, and this kiss is slower, sweeter. Romantic. _Loving_ , even.

When Stiles turns his head to look into Derek’s eyes, and possibly say something embarrassingly sentimental, light is blossoming around Derek’s face, creating this makeshift halo.

Hair mussed, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, and glowing like an angel, Derek looks so beautiful to him, and he’s about to vocalize that when he pauses in confusion, and only manages to utter, “…light?”

Derek tilts his head like a confused dog, and Stiles’ heart just throbs with fondness. He sits up a little, his hands coming to Derek’s waist, certainly not wanting Derek to ever leave his lap again. He looks around Derek’s side, and realizes the lights are on in the house across the street - Derek must see what Stiles is looking at, because he looks over his shoulders, then back to Stiles, and they both start manically pulling themselves together, Stiles trying to wipe all the cum off his stomach with just his hand, pulling up his pants frantically, his shirts all disheveled. 

Derek is still pulling his belt through the loops of his jeans as he’s jumping the bushes, and reaching back for Stiles’ hand, cursing, “always such a goddamn distraction.”

Stiles laughs heartily, grabbing Derek’s hand so they can crash whatever disgusting blood bath is going on in the house, hopefully save an innocent life, and he really just resigns himself to have the most fucked up psychosexual responses of any human on Earth. 

With the way Derek’s still looking fucked and flustered, still fighting an absurd smile on a cold, dark night, hunting a fucking vampire, how can Stiles be anything but appreciative and infatuated?

He decides he’ll ask Derek later about what other missions he’s been such a ‘goddamn distraction,’ for because he’s very honestly curious. 

Until then, he’ll just hunt vampires, as one does, and let Derek come on his happy trail, because that, he supposes, is what Halloween is about in Beacon Hills. 

What the fuck else could it be, after all?


End file.
